Noble Maiden, Hidden Huntress
by Awena-Sachi
Summary: Lorna is an illiterate, but cunning girl from a small Scottish village. When a strange man who spreads a disease from his fingertips throws her life into chaos, she must journey to Castle DunBroch, and not only warn the king and queen of the danger coming, but gain the trust of the clans, the king and queen themselves, and a certain red-haired princess.
1. Prologue

A/N Here's my first "Brave" fanfic. The pale man described is the main villain, and his backstory will be revealed in a later chapter. And I know this chapter will be a bit dark, but there will be humor eventually. Enjoy!

Prologue

A shrill scream echoed through the streets. It was a sound of pure agony and suffering, as the victim was held in a chokehold by his assailant. The young Frenchman was trembling, as black sores and lumps spewing out pus began to spread on his chest and throat, upon contact with the pale man. The knife he was carrying for protection, blessed by the priests of a small chapel and soaked in holy water, glinted and reflected the sharp glare of the moonlight. He tried to grab it with his right arm, as it was located on a belt he wore, but the pale man snagged his arm, making it immobile, as well as causing the sores and lumps to spread there.

The pale man seemed to sneer at the Frenchman, and looked absolutely terrifying. His head and hands, being the only skin visible, were a pale chalky white shade, and his eyes were a strange milky gray color. He was bald, and the surface of his head did not reflect the moonlight like the Frenchman's knife did. He only wore a long, black cloak, which seemed to be made of the night sky. And whenever he touched someone, black lumps and sores would begin to cover the infected area. Once the sores spread all over the body, the person would experience either a horrible fever, or begin to vomit blood. Within three days, the person would be dead.

The pale man threw the Frenchman on the ground, having no use for him, or the other victims that he left to die. He usually left them where they lay, but he sometimes would stay a little while, just to see the person writhe in agony. It was an amusing thing to him, seeing them squirm about, all the while becoming unrecognizable from all the lumps and sores. It suited his wicked sense of humor. His lips arched upward, giving the Frenchman a horrid Cheshire grin.

"D-d-demon!" The Frenchman rasped out as he grew weaker by the minute. "I h-hope y-you r-r-…rot in h-hell!" The sores had finished spreading across his neck, and were now covering his face. His breathing was becoming labored.

"My, my," the pale man said disapprovingly. "Why the temper? A lowly urchin like you shouldn't be speaking out, now that you are even closer to death than expected. No, no, wailers like you would never do." He reached down, and lightly touched his index finger on the man's lower lip. Sores immediately began to travel inside the man's mouth. His hands shot up to his throat, as his eyes widened in fear. With merely a disgusted snort, from the fear emanating from the Frenchman, the pale man left the latter to suffocate.

He glided across the cobblestone streets, seeming to move like a shadow would. In the houses beside him, shutters snapped shut and light from candles was quickly extinguished. The survivors of the coastal town were desperately trying to protect themselves from the disease the man spread from his fingertips. They had heard from travelers in other parts of France, as well as from foreign sailors, of the pale man, but the idea of a man being able to spread a disease without being infected himself was simply too great to believe. And, like all the villages he bombarded, the coastal town was unprepared, and as a result, many were lost.

The pale man continued to stroll through the abandoned streets, occasionally causing a passer-by to scamper away. He continued to do so until he reached the harbor. The waters of the Channel were like a mirror, reflecting the glare of the frigidly white moon. The man walked over to the boardwalk, where the boats were held. He selected the sturdiest boat, climbed in, opened up the sail, lifted the anchor, and began to steer the boat away from the harbor. If he touched something that was not living flesh, the object would begin to deteriorate, so he was always careful to select the sturdiest material. The journey across the Channel would be long, and there were no provisions on the boat, but it didn't faze the man. He never ate, or slept, he had no need to do such things, ever since the evil spirit began to take over his body back in Scotland.

He breathed in the strong, salty smell of the Channel.

"Ah, Mother Scotland," he murmured. "I'm coming home." He grinned once more as the wind blew harder against the sail, hurtling him closer to the thousands of people, unaware of the impending danger coming their way.


	2. Chapter 1: The Silence Before the Storm

_A/N: Finally, I was able to upload Ch. 1. Enjoy!_

Chapter 1

The cool wind gently weaved through the leaves of the hardy little apple tree. Its leaves rustled slightly, catching bits of sunlight, and were pushed aside as a hand reached out to pluck an apple from its stem. The hand belonged to Lorna, a Scottish teenager, who was harvesting apples for her mother. She had a slim build, as did most of the girls of her village, and her slightly wavy hair that fell just below her shoulders was a modest shade of brown. Her bangs were sometimes a nuisance, since she often had to brush them away from her eyes, which were the color of almonds. She had a simple teal-green dress, handmade with the help of her mother, and was slowly climbing the tree barefoot.

She moved very carefully, to not disturb the bird's nest that was across her left arm, which held a small basket for the apples. The young fledglings had been restless the whole time she was there, and were chirping desperately from hunger, since their mother was not back yet from scavenging. Lorna was careful not to go near, or even touch the birds, since her father told her that a fledgling would be killed by its own mother if a human touched it. She did not understand why the mother bird would do such a thing, but she obeyed her father anyway. When she finally picked the last apple that could fit inside the small basket, she carefully adjusted the basket on her arm, and quietly climbed down, making sure that she stepped on the sturdiest branches.

When she finally reached the ground, Lorna placed the basket down, and reached over to her leather work boots that lay on the base of the tree. After pulling them on, she picked up the wicker basket, and walked over to the cottage, where she and her parents lived. Their cottage was small, but decently-sized for a family of three. It had heavy stone walls, and a roof that was mostly composed of straw and hay. To the eastern side of the cottage, was a small pen where her family kept their goats, Molly and Lana. The cottage was about half a mile east from the village, and about three miles away from the nearest port located by the loch.

The apple tree was located on a hill that overlooked her family's farm, and also provided a bird's eye view of her village. It was a good-sized tree, and it was so hardy, that it had been around when her parents were children. To Lorna, it meant the world to her. Lorna had a long history with the tree. Ever since she could walk, her parents had been taking her there, and she learned at a young age how to climb it. As a child, she had witnessed the many wonders that the tree produced. In the spring, it produced flowers, with petals the color of snow, and when the wind blew, Lorna would scramble around, and try to catch as many petals as she could. She loved the sweet smell they produced, and thought that it was a snow day in spring. In the summer, she marveled at how tiny green balls that grew from the branches turned into round and fat objects, that her parents called "apples". When autumn came, the leaves of the tree turned into fiery reds and oranges, and Lorna was allowed to pick the apples from the tree. When her parents allowed her to taste her first apple, she remembered the satisfying crunch she made as her teeth sunk into the juicy flesh of the apple, and tasting the sweetness that it gave. It was the best thing she had ever tasted in her young life. She also learned from her mother that apples not only could be used to make things like apple pies, but they also had medicinal uses too. Lorna learned that apples could be used to cleanse the teeth, and could help relieve ailments such as indigestion and fevers. In short, the apple tree was very useful to Lorna and her family.

Smoke was coming from the chimney of the cottage; her mother must have been preparing supper. Lorna smiled at the idea of helping her mother bake the pies. She lifted the latch from the wooden door, opened it, and went inside. She saw her mother kneading some dough by the dug-out oven. The fire was raging at the bottom and there was only a small rack that was able to support any backed goods that were going to be cooked. Above her were the provisions that they had scavenged from the wood that lay to the south, as well as some harvested crop, which hung from the ceiling. There was only one window which faced west, toward the loch. A thin sheet of glass was the only thing that separated the interior of the cottage from the elements. Beside the window was a simple wooden table with three chairs. By the northern side of the cottage, was a small cupboard, which had a few drawers at the bottom. The cupboard stored jars of spices and preserves, small pieces of meat, which were often hard to come by, as well as the small amount of what would've been called silverware. There were also jars of milk from the goats, as well as goat cheese. The drawers held the few items of clothing the family had. True, they were poor, and barely had a cent to their name, but they were hardy enough to be able to feed themselves throughout the year, and have somewhat adequate clothing to face the elements.

Her mother looked up.

"Ah, Lorna, I see you've got the apples from the tree. Come here love." Her mother was a nimble maiden. She had fair hair and skin, and her eyes where the calm shade of green. Lorna came over to where her mother was, and laid the basket of apples on the stool beside her. Her mother handed her a knife. Lorna picked up an apple, took the knife, and sat down. She cut pieces from the apple, and handed them to her mother, who in turn, placed them within the dough. However, instead of placing the apple core into a pile which would later have been fed to the goats, Lorna stowed it away in the pocket of her dress. She would later pick out the seeds and store them into a small leather pouch she always carried around. She wanted to save as many seeds as she could, because her father once told her that if she was able to plant enough seeds, there would be row upon row of trees, bursting with apples. That was her dream that once she grew up, she would own an entire apple orchard, and anyone would be welcome to harvest her apples.

Cutting, handing over, sticking, and smuggling. This cycle went on until the dough was covered in apple slices. Lorna gave the knife back to her mother, picked up the now-empty basket and placed it onto the table. Her mother placed the dough onto a pan, and stuck it into the oven, carefully placing it on the rack. Lorna reached into the cupboard and got out the three plates, and three forks. Just as she set them down on their respective places on the table, the door opened once more. A man who was in his mid-thirties came inside the hut. He, like his other family members was slim, but his skin was darkened due to the many hours toiling in the fields, exposed to the sun. He had scruffy brown hair and a shaggy beard, and had the same eye color as Lorna.

"Da!" she exclaimed, ran over to him, and embraced him into a tight bear hug.

"Ha ha! Oh Lorna ya lively lass! You've been picking apples I see." She eagerly nodded, and turned around to see her mother smiling at the two. Her father let her go to give a light peck on the cheek of her mother.

"How were the fields?" She asked.

"Fine an' fertile," he replied. "If I didn't know any bettar, I'd say we'll have a bountiful harvest come autumn!"

"Well, that's a good thing ta hear, now," she looked at both of them, "Both of ya wash up fer supper." Lorna went to the table, and pulled out a medium-sized bucket of water, which had a few damp rags hanging to the sides. She and her father kneeled down and begin to wash their hands with the water. Out of the earshot of her mother, her father leaned over and whispered into her ear:

"Did ya save any seeds?" In response, she opened the pocket of her dress to reveal several apple cores. Their seeds burrowed inside. Her father chuckled, and again whispered to her:

"Be sure ta get tha seeds out when yer mum's not lookin'." Lorna nodded, and the two continued to wash their hands. When they finished, Lorna slipped outside, her father distracting her mother, and grabbed a knife in the process. She went over to the goats' pen, and began to carefully dig within the apple core to pluck the seeds out. Molly and Lana stuck their heads through the fence, smelling the scent of the apple core. Lorna giggled.

"Just be patient you two, you'll get yer apple core." She picked out the apple seeds from the core, and held them with one hand. She freed her other hand by giving Molly the empty core, who immediately began chomping on it. Lana leaned her head out and began bleating for her apple core. Lorna reached into her other pocket and pulled out a medium-sized leather pouch. She loosened the strings attached to it, and opened it. It was filled with dozens of apple seeds collected over the years. She dropped the seeds she had recently cut from the apple into the pouch, and set it down beside her. She took another apple core, carved out the apple seeds and fed Lana the core. She continued to do this until her pocket was empty and the goats were satisfied. She checked her pouch; it was almost half-way full. At the progress she was going at, she probably was going to need another pouch by the end of the next spring.

"Lorna!" her mother called, "Supper's ready!" She got up, closed up her pouch and stuffed it into her pocket, and hid the knife with another. When she walked inside the cottage, the sweet smell of the apple pie welcomed her, and her mouth began to water in anticipation. She sat down with her father, as her mother brought out the pie; it was roughly the size of a medium-sized plate. Lorna and her father held out their palms, and her mother cut a piece of the pie that was roughly the size of their palms. It was a method they worked out years ago, to make the food last as long as possible, which meant shrinking their portions. But they didn't mind, they were used to being hungry, and didn't mind the hunger pains as much as, say, a nobleperson would.

When Lorna's mother cut out a piece for herself, they all began to eat their pieces. Lorna took small bites; she wanted to savor the taste of the pie, because her mother didn't bake such things often. Usually they would eat some leftover bread or porridge, and on special occasions some mutton, if they could find some.

"So," her mother directed to her father between bites, "Any news from tha village?"

"Not much," he replied, "Yer brother is doin' fine at tha' workshop, business is tha same as always… Oh! An' the baker was caught foolin' around with tha Irishman's daughter! The men told me his face was as red as a sorry sow! Ha Ha! If only I would 'ave been thar ta see it!" Lorna tried suppressing a giggle, and her mother pursed her lips in disapproval.

"Well, serves him right, just imagine tha humiliation he must have caused fer tha poor lassie."

"Oh, 'twas just a flirtation an' fancy dear, I'm sure he didn't mean any harm. An' by tha way, some o' tha men were talkin' 'bout some strange rumors."

"Rumors?" Lorna asked.

"Yes child, rumors! I don' believe it meself, but the men were talkin' o' a strange entity, 'parently paler than tha moon herself, an' they say he was spotted off tha coast of tha Channel. One day he came into tha village, and tha next day he left. An' an unlucky traveler happened ta come across it an' discovered nearly everyone was dead! They had these strange black lumps an' sores; some even had them in tha…."

"Now is not tha time to discuss rumors and superstitions!" Her mother interrupted, casting a disapproving glance at her father.

"It be only rumors woman!" Her father protested, "An' I already said I didn't believe them ta be true. An' I'm only repeating what the other men are saying. Besides, it's impossible ta spread a disease an' not be affected by it!" The two bickered on and on about men with superstitions and how rumors never did anyone any good. Lorna tuned them out, finishing the last bits of her pie and licked her fingers clean. She still had the aftertaste of the apples on her mouth.

While her parents weren't looking, she got up, took her plate and left the table, leaving her plate in a bucket. She snuck outside once again, the sun was almost set, and Lorna was able to make out a star or two. She walked over to her apple tree, and sat by it, leaning her head against the bark. She could almost make out the bird's nest above her, and she smiled at the idea of the mother bird snuggling in for the night with her young. But her mind then drifted to what her father was talking about, the pale man who could spread a disease and kill of almost an entire village in a single night. What if those rumors were true? And if they were, would the pale man head to her village? Was he a demon? Or was he a harbinger of the time of Judgment when the angels would come down from the Almighty himself to determine who would be saved?

_Oh, what am I thinking?_ She thought, shaking her head. _Like me da said, they're only rumors, an' a person can't spread a disease without getting it himself._

"Nothin' ta worry about. It's only just a petty rumor." She whispered to herself. She spread her legs out and gazed into the sky, watching the stars come up, one by one.

_Really, what's tha worse that could happen?_


	3. Chapter 2: Ruin

**A/N – I owe you guys a huge apology… I've been stuck in a rut with this fanfic, and school hasn't been helping. I know this chapter is way overdue, and I've been having a pretty bad case of writer's block. But, nevertheless, it seems to be going away. Enjoy!**

Not much happened after the day Lorna's father spoke of the rumors. The usual business went on; she helped her mother around the hut, took care of the goats, picked and ate apples. It was the same monotonous routine, over and over again, minus the slightly cooler weather, hinting to the beginning of autumn and later winter. The wheat was doing well, and soon Lorna and her mother were going to have to pitch in and help her father harvest. It was back-breaking work, but the wheat was precious, and much needed for survival in the harsh winter months. Life went on for them and the others in the village. All was well, and they continued on, unaware of how upended their lives would become.

The icy breath of wind tickled against Lorna, causing the gooseflesh to rise on her skin. She rubbed her arms for warmth, hoping that her mother would finish mending her winter sweater soon. Her leather boots crushed the dew-laden grass as she made her way through the streets of the village. The village she and her family lived by was small and often had a weary-cattle atmosphere, but it suited them perfectly; they were not people of noise and extravagance. It had the modest population of about two hundred, and was mostly composed of frugal merchants and iron-mongers. The streets were lined with ancient worn stone, and the houses, if one could call them houses, were composed of a mixture of stone, hay, and somewhat flimsy wood. There was often a constant stench in the air from the butcher's shop, along with other scents, such as wood burning from chimneys, or fire burning from the forges scattered throughout the village. But these things didn't bother the people one bit, it was a way of life for them, and it was the only way of life they ever knew.

The grass gave way to stone as Lorna entered the village. As she passed by the houses, she noticed that there wasn't much activity going on, not that it was surprising, there were some days in which nobody really wanted to go out, plus it was cloudy, possibly promising rain. The cool breeze once again tickled her sides, and Lorna, frustrated, wrapped her arms around herself for much-needed warmth.

"Damn this cold!" She muttered to herself. "Why couldn't mum fix me sweater any sooner?" She continued to mutter and curse the wind, as she grumpily proceeded to the main square of the village, where her uncle's forge was located. The forge was a small, stone building, with only one glass window and two doors, one in front, and another in the back. A chimney on top belched out smoke; she wondered what kind of weapon he was forging. She knocked her fist on the door, hoping that he could hear her amid the crackles of the fire. A few moments passed, and the weather-beaten door opened to reveal a tall, boisterous man, with an ash-colored beard, and dark-colored clothing, stained from years of working at the forge. He gave a hearty chuckle, and lifted Lorna into a huge bear hug.

"Ah! Lorna, ya lovely maid o' spring, what brings such a fine, blossom to this humble forge?" He said lovingly.

"_Coff-_Uncle…_Coff_… Yes, yes! It's good ta see you too!" Lorna was stifled by his strong grip and the ashes that rubbed into her face. But she knew that he meant well, and was only happy to see her. She only ventured into the village a few times in the year, so her visits were much valued by him.

"Oh, how I've missed you, little blossom. How is your mother?" He asked, finally bringing her down. She took a moment to wipe off the ashes.

"She's doing well, and sends her love. We've all been busy with tha harvest, an' da needs all the help he can get. Which reminds me, have you got tha scythe he asked for?"

"Oh yes!" her uncle replied, "I recall him askin' o' something of tha sort. Come in, child." As she entered the forge with her uncle, she took a moment to cover her mouth with her hand. She never really liked the ambience of the forge, and the constant stench of the flames and oppressive heat didn't help much either. She even disliked the fire which, at the moment, was simmering with its coppery flames, and burning coals; it reminded her of the terrifying sermons of some wandering monks, who preached that if the villagers did not convert and repent their sinning ways, they would forever be damned to Hell, supposedly a place of fire and brimstone. Her parents were so terrified of this, that they were among the first to convert, Lorna being only a girl of four.

But such discomfort was a small price to pay for visiting her uncle. She did truly love him, and was willing to bear with the oppressive heat of the forge. They passed by the great hearth, and came to a small room that held all sorts of weapons and farming materials, from hoes to terrible, spiked maces. She didn't enter the room, not wanting to accidentally dislodge something and cause all the items to come tumbling down… at least that was the excuse she gave her uncle. She never really felt comfortable with so many sharp ends around her. It was like her mother said, "A sword is a man's weapon, while a lady is content with her cooking knife."

She saw him rummaging through the neat stacks of farming tools, muttering about something that had to do with a merchant who was three days late for a sword. He finally retrieved what he was looking for, the scythe had a long, narrow handle, and its blade glinted from the fire of the forge, it was at least her height.

"This seems ta be it," her uncle said, making sure, that the scythe's blade seemed sharp enough. "Yer father must be havin' a good harvest, if he needs an extra scythe." She shrugged.

"I guess we're lucky this year, sometimes tha harvest is so bad, we barely have enough fer ourselves," she said. Her family traded a good portion of their crop to the villagers and merchants, what little money they earned went toward their taxes, and oftentimes, there was little left over. But the summer had been good to the crop, and her father knew that the harvest was going to be the best yet.

"It's a good thing you are," her uncle added, "It wouldn't be good, you an' your parents sufferin' through tha winter without a decent..." He was cut off from a loud shriek that seemed like it came from the inn on the other side of the village. The shriek was then followed by a crescendo of wails and screams of terror. This chorus of agony sent ripples of gooseflesh down Lorna's spine, and she could feel the blood run cold in her veins. Her uncle's face grew grim, and he once again went into the storage closet, to retrieve a sword, slightly worn, but still useful.

"Here," he carefully handed the scythe to Lorna, who tightly gripped it with both hands, careful to hold the blade away from her body. "I'll try to hold those blasted invaders off with the other men. If I don't come back…" He paused, contemplating the possibility.

"…if I don't come back… Tell your mother I love her very much..." Lorna nodded tersely, trying to fight the urge of trembling, by gripping the handles of the scythe; she had hoped to never experience this situation, it always felt like something remote and unlikely to happen. But this was real; and she knew that she had to keep her wits about her. Her uncle then walked over and embraced her in an awkward hug, and Lorna dug her face into his shirt, covering her face from the ashes of the forge. She didn't know if she would ever smell such a scent ever again. Her uncle tenderly kissed her on the forehead, and whispered in her ear:

"You know what to do."

She knew exactly what he meant; she had been instructed over and over again of what to do in case of an emergency. If there was ever a time when invaders of any kind attacked the village, she had to get as far away from it as possible. If she was in the forge, in this instance, she would have to flee on foot, to the farmhouse, warn her parents, and then try to run into the wood for safety. Her uncle then broke the embrace, headed to the door and closed it shut. Yet, Lorna still stood frozen, even as she began to hear the battle cries of the village's men, the shrill screams of the victims of the attackers, and the constant barking of the dogs. She then swallowed, took a deep breath, exhaled, and whispered:

"Move."

She bolted from the storage closet, and ran alongside the forage fire. Carefully setting the scythe down, she lifted the latch of the back door, and pushed the door open with a grunt. Grabbing the scythe, she ran out, forgetting to say her last goodbyes to the forge. Her feet pounded against the hard-packed earth, as she ran past cottages and men running in the other direction, armed with hoes, rakes, and other items with sharpened ends they were able to find. She never looked back, even as she heard the sudden smell of the flames that must have erupted from one of the forges, nor when she heard more death screams rattling through the autumn air. She never looked back, even when she reached the outskirts of the village, and began sprinting though the grass, barely hearing the cries of "Plague! Get the women and children away!"

_Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back._ She kept repeating this mantra in her head. Her feet began to ache, and she was beginning to tire… But no, she had to go on; she had to warn her parents.

By the time she reached the farmhouse, she collapsed on her knees, panting from a near loss of breath. Her hands loosened their grips on the handles of the scythe, and they ached from holding the handles so tightly. She slowly turned back, brushing the mousy brown bangs from her eyes. Her eyes widened in horror. What were once squat, grey buildings became a blazing inferno, from her vantage point, it seemed as if the entire village was in flames.

_My God… It's… It's all gone…_ She thought, as she felt the wet tears brimming in her eyes. _And… my uncle… what about him? Is he…_ She covered her mouth, to stifle the sobs developing in her throat.

"Arnold! Dear God, Arnold, tha village's being attacked!" Her head snapped up when hearing the shrill, panicked voice of her mother.

"Mum, mum, I'm here!" Lorna hastily picked up the scythe, went around the corner of the cottage, and saw her panic-stricken mother. She again carefully set down the scythe and ran over to embrace her mother in a tight hug.

"Oh Lorna… My precious little darling…" Her mother murmured as she stroked her daughter's hair, like she did when she was young. Lorna sniffled, and held her mother tighter.

"Lorna…" she said, pulling back, "Jon, your uncle, have you heard…" She paused when watching her daughter's face become crestfallen.

"I don't know mum… he went to fight with the other men… I haven't seen 'im since then… But, there's more," she gripped her mother's shoulders, "While I reached the outskirts of the village, I heard cries of 'Plague,' do ya think it's the Pale Man, from the rumors?"

Her mother was silent; she honestly didn't know what was causing all of the trouble down at the village. It was hard to think straight with so much going on; she first saw the flames of the village, and horrifying images flashed through her mind, of the possibilities of what could've happened to Lorna and her brother. After that, she simply ran out, hoping her husband could hear her call, as he was only a speck in the distance, out in the fields. She knew that she had to act quickly, because time was running out, and they had to get out of there _now_, before whoever, or whatever it was that was attacking the village, would come and befall them as well.

"I… I don't know, but what I do know, is that we have to take whatever we can and hide, and hopefully we can evade attack." Her mother said firmly. Lorna nodded tersely, blinking back tears.

"Come now, and set that scythe by the door." Her voice became urgent, as she and Lorna quickly entered the hut. Lorna did as she was told, and set the scythe by the door. Her mother immediately began taking the provisions they saved from previous months, and stuffing them into a small bundle. Lorna also grabbed a bundle, went over to the cupboard, quickly opened the drawers, and began stuffing random articles of clothing inside, and was mindful to grab a needle and some thread. As soon as she cleared the drawer of any useful clothing, she grabbed a small pouch, tucked away in the back of the drawer, and stuffed it deep inside of the bundle. The pouch held what little earnings she and her family made, and they didn't want to risk losing it. She also swiped a butcher knife from the cupboard, just in case they encountered any bandits, or Lord knew what else.

As soon as she tied the bundle up, she stood up, and joined her mother, who also had a small bundle of food. Her mother quickly opened the door, and hastily made her way out, Lorna close behind her. Swinging the bag over her shoulder, Lorna grabbed the scythe resting by the door, as her mother closed the door shut.

"All right, all we need to do now is warn your father, lead the goats away and…" Her voice faltered, as she caught sight of something coming toward them in the distance. It seemed that someone was coming toward them on horseback, amid the backdrop of ruined and still burning village. Only… the horse seemed to be having a hard time trying to run, and as the person grew closer, Lorna and her mother could hear moans, and strained wheezes that were coming from the horse… which looked like it had black lumps and sores covering its entire body at an impossibly fast rate.

"God Almighty…" Her mother muttered. Lorna's eyes grew wide, and she tightly gripped the scythe with her free hand, to prevent it from trembling. Both women were frozen in shock. A few yards away from the cottage, the horse finally collapsed, giving out its final, wheezing breaths. The rider, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, focusing his milky grey eyes on the two women in front of him. He calmly dismounted the horse, and let an insidious smile creep onto his face.

Her mother put a hand on her shoulder, and began pushing her back, picking up the pace. But the Pale Man approached them quickly, moving like a shadow would. This time, Lorna and her mother broke into a sprint, running past the cottage and the apple tree, hoping to outrun the Pale Man. But they did so in vain. The Pale Man only glided up to her mother, being the one closest to him, grasped her shoulders firmly, and whispered into her ear:

"Where do you think you're going, little wench?"

Lorna turned around, and upon seeing her mother in the hands of this terrifying stranger, felt a slow, heated feeling rush through her. It was like a flame that, originating from her core, seemed to spread throughout her body, filling her with adrenaline. She lifted the scythe in a defensive position, and approached the Pale Man. Her eyes narrowed, and she felt her right ear twitch, something that always happened when something bad happened.

"Stay. Away. From. My. Mother." She said in icily calm voice, inwardly wondering how she had gotten such a sudden burst of courage. The Pale Man chuckled sarcastically.

"Oh how I quake in fear, the little milk maid threatens me with a scythe and what small amounts of wit she has. Well two can play at that game." He shoved her mother towards her, but her mother was able to redirect her fall, landing on her knees a few inches away from her daughter. And Lorna could painfully see why she did so. Her mother's back was beginning to be covered with an alarmingly large amount of black sores… which began to spread to her arms.

"Mum…" The heat of her anger quickly vanished, and was replaced by cold, gut-wrenching fear. Her mother realized what was happening to her, and quickly flung her sack to Lorna.

"Lorna, listen to me, you have to get as far away from here as possible." She began to sound frantic, as the dam finally broke, and tears began to well from her eyes.

"No mum! I can't live without you an' da!" Lorna cried out moving closer, only to be brushed away slightly by her mother's fingertips.

"No Lorna! Don' get close, you'll get infected!" She gently brushed her daughter's face with her fingertips, and felt the tears running down Lorna's face.

"Mum…" Lorna never felt so wretchedly helpless in her life, watching her mother deteriorate in front of her.

"Never forget that your father an' I love you so much…" Her voice caught up in a sob. "And… never stop fighting, never stop loving. Now go."

Lorna stood numbly.

"GO!" Her mother finally pushed her back, just before the sores reached her hands. Lorna stumbled back, and regaining her senses, picked up the other bundle.

"I love you mum." She said gravely, and then took off, sprinting at full speed, not seeing her mother being impaled by a deteriorating spear the Pale Man had retrieved from the village. She never saw, nor heard her father run, full speed at the Pale Man, bellowing at the top of his lungs, and swung his shear at the Pale Man's shoulder. She never saw the Pale Man regain his composure, not from pain, but from surprise, and covered the shear in bacteria, and slashed its blade across her father's chest. She never saw how her father feebly crawled over to his dying wife, and gently entwined his hand into hers. She never saw the Pale Man walk up to her precious apple tree, and the birds, sensing danger, flew way. She never saw him casually brush his finger across the bark, and allow the bark to rot, the leaves fall off the branches, disintegrating as the bacteria invaded its fragile surface, and the apples to squelch out pus and turn brown, and fall to the ground.

He turned his head away from the carnage and the destruction, to see Lorna's receding figure disappear into the forest. He blinked in confusion, just as he saw her vanish from sight, strange patches of light invaded his eyesight, and in the place of Lorna, he saw little girl running away, laughing as she went; she had similar colored hair to Lorna, but had a darker dress…

The Pale Man squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his temples. He had been having these strange visions ever since he came back to Scotland. Sometimes he would see the laughing little girl, and other times he would see a woman, but her face was blurry, and he could only make out her platinum-blond hair. He grunted in annoyance, and cast away all thoughts of the visions that plagued him. He stared into the forest once more.

"So… the young Lorna believes she can slip away from me so easily, we shall see with that." And with that, he left the ruined village, cottage, and the dead behind him, and began to make his way toward the forest…

**A/N - Phew! This turned out to be twelve pages long. Well, this was a lovely little sad chapter, wasn't it? Anyway, in case any of you are confused, the Pale Man's visions are actually a foreshadowing of a possible backstory…**


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